


Not Actually Joking

by tabris



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Polyamory, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabris/pseuds/tabris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The vein on Chris' forehead is starting to throb.</p><p>"So help me if you two don't settle this right now I <i>will</i> spank you."</p><p>Stiles and Peter both shut up in an instant, jaws clacking shut near simultaneously.</p><p>Chris almost laughs — their faces are <i>priceless</i> — but Stiles is turning an intriguingly blotchy shade of brilliant red and Peter's nostrils are flaring like he's scenting for a hunt.</p><p>
  <i>Oh.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Actually Joking

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [polyamorouswolfexchange](http://polyamorouswolfexchange.tumblr.com) on tumblr. my recipient dropped, but if they happen to recognize their prompt i hope they enjoy. ;D
> 
> many thanks to ara, mala, and the rest of the steter network chatzy for the copious hand-holding and cheerleading ♥

When Stiles managed to wiggle his snarky, incredibly enthusiastic way into Peter and Chris' on again off again thing that could only loosely be called a relationship, Chris may have had some expectations.

Things that he expected that _did_ in fact come to pass included a ridiculous amount of sex (between a werewolf and a teenage boy he was never in want of a lover); the general public making very very wrong assumptions (the first time Stiles called Chris 'Daddy' in bed Peter nearly fell off of it laughing); and for half of his clothes to disappear (it took Stiles all of two days to realize that smelling like Chris was the quickest, most foolproof way to drive Peter up the wall, _especially_ in public).

Somehow, though, entirely _un_ expectedly, Stiles' presence managed to inspire more of a commitment from both Peter and Chris than either of them would have previously thought possible. After all, between their families and the baggage that came along for the ride, the two of them had been at each others' throats both literally and figuratively for over a decade. A white picket fence and two point five children were never in their picture.

And yet if their years of antagonism had made them want anything, it was to keep it away from Stiles. Weirdly, it worked.

The other thing Chris didn't quite expect was that having Stiles around frequently meant that Peter let his bratty side out to play more than ever. The most alarming part of it was that Peter at thirty-mumble was somehow _more_ obnoxious than Peter at Stiles' own age.

And that was before Chris got the brilliant idea of getting an Xbox to keep them out of his hair while he was trying to do things that distractions could cause to end badly.

(He's still not sure what possessed him to make him think that would work. Some sort of mischief demon probably.)

 

"What the— _Where did my save go!?_ " Stiles screeches at a volume that makes Chris wince from two rooms away.

"What are you talking about?" Peter drawls.

Chris has had years to get to know that voice with all of its tones and insinuations. Right now he's seriously considering a life of celibacy.

"My Skyrim save," Stiles grits out, "the one I've been playing on for the last two years."

"No idea," Peter says flippantly.

"I swear to god if you saved over my game I will straight up murder you. Again."

"I don't know what you're talking about. And even if I did, it's just a game."

Lie. Blatant lie. Even Stiles can't be that oblivious.

"Two years of my life, Peter. I had over three _million_ gold."

Chris makes his way towards the living room cautiously. A series of blips and boops comes from the television.

"Wh— what are you doing?"

"Proving a point. You are the only other person who plays on this system —"

"Stop."

"— Not even Allison has a save on here. So you _had_ to have been the one to kill my save —"

"No. _Stiles_."

"— but like you said, 'It's just a game', so you won't mind if I —"

Peter launches himself at Stiles just as Chris comes around the corner.

"It was an accident okay, don't you dare!"

"An accident, _right_ , you asshole."

After a few moments of struggling, Peter ends up on top of Stiles, who's face-down on the carpet shielding the controller with his body.

"How the fuck did you save over my game 'on accident' then, huh?"

"Muscle memory."

"Oh I'll show you muscle memory, all right."

The vein on Chris' forehead is starting to throb.

"So help me if you two don't settle this right now I _will_ spank you."

Stiles and Peter both shut up in an instant, jaws clacking shut near simultaneously.

Chris almost laughs — their faces are _priceless_ — but Stiles is turning an intriguingly blotchy shade of brilliant red and Peter's nostrils are flaring like he's scenting for a hunt.

_Oh._

Chris leans against the living room doorway, arms crossed as he considers his next step.

On one hand, Stiles has gleefully dived into every kink Peter or Chris has so much as hinted at and it's so far ended pretty great for all parties involved. On the other, he's about ready to murder them both, code be damned. The Sheriff will forgive him if he explains. Probably.

An idea starts to form in his head and Peter's gaze turns to him curiously, pointedly eyeing Chris up and down while Stiles tries to sputter out a response.

"One word," Chris says firmly, "One more argument from either one of you and you'll both find out how much I'm not actually joking right now."

Stiles opens his mouth, but to Chris' surprise it's Peter who gets the first word in.

"Really, Christopher?" he says with a skeptical snort. He nods in Stiles' general direction. "He's already halfway to coming from just thought of it" — "Hey!" — "and, well, you say that like you think you could actually hold me down."

Chris narrows his eyes and Peter's flare bright blue in response.

"Uh, could you two maybe do the whole macho standoff thing without squishing the Stiles?"

Peter shifts, and Chris can see his hand wrapped firmly around the back of Stiles' neck, pinning him in place.

"Come here, Peter."

Peter sighs dramatically, unsubtly shoving Stiles' face into the carpet before standing. Stiles rolls over and flips him off, muttering under his breath about _fucking heavy-ass werewolves who need to keep their noses to themselves_. It takes a lot of control to not laugh, especially when Chris has had the exact same thought more than a few times himself.

There's a sway to Peter's hips as he walks towards Chris that screams challenge. Chris can't honestly say he's ever legitimately considered spanking Peter before but the thought of the wolf sprawled over his lap in submission has certainly piqued his curiosity.

He wonders how much it would take to turn Peter's bare skin crimson. If a first-class masochist like Peter would even last that long.

Stiles drags in a shaky breath when Chris yanks Peter close, Peter who for all his posturing is still holding back, clinging to his pride like armor.

Yes, this should work nicely.

"Peter," Chris says, pitching his voice low enough that the still-grumbling Stiles can't overhear. "You and I both know I have a dozen ways to bring you down in this room alone. You can cooperate now, or I can demonstrate precisely how capable I am of making you submit."

Chris doesn't blink, just squeezes Peter's wrist hard enough to bruise until Peter snarls, lip curling to reveal a hint of fang.

And then, miracle of miracles, he lifts his chin, just a fraction, but it's enough of an acknowledgement for Chris.

They've never really held with anything as polite as safewords.

"Where do you want me then, Master Argent?" Peter asks, as ever ruining the moment with sarcasm and a bonus mocking little half-bow.

Stepping towards the couch, Chris pulls Peter along with him, stepping over Stiles who yelps and sits up in alarm.

"What the—"

"Sit down," Chris orders.

Stiles scrambles up awkwardly and goes to join them on the couch. Chris points instead to the chair facing it.

"No, there. Hands on the armrest, mouth shut. Any commentary and my response will be far less pleasant than you're currently imagining."

He responds almost instinctively, an air of aroused surprise around him as though he didn't expect his body to comply. Once his brain catches up he makes as if to speak, then seems to think better of it and nods instead.

"Good," Chris says.

If Peter's nearly inaudible growl is anything to go by he doesn't miss the smug smile Stiles sends his way.

Chris sits but doesn't release Peter's wrist. Why make it easy for him?

"Pants down, now."

Peter rolls his eyes and sighs before wresting his fly open one-handed.

And Chris has to laugh, a rough little huff of air over Peter's naked dick because of course he's not wearing underwear.

He can hear the click of Stiles' dry throat and doesn't blame him. He's sure Stiles has quite a lovely view at the moment, Peter's round ass bare above tight denim. It's too bad for Stiles that a view is all he's going to be getting tonight.

Returning his attention to Peter, Chris can't help but smirk. He has an inkling of how this is going to go, and sure, Peter's surprised him before, but he's got a feeling Peter's reaction may actually surprise himself if he can get him to let go of his ego for a little while.

Chris leans back into the couch, finally letting go of Peter to adjust his pants. His dick has been taking an interest in proceedings since he first caught Stiles' initial reaction — there's no point in hiding it now.

With a sweep of his arm he gestures towards his lap.

"Over."

"You're actually serious about this?" Peter asks, somehow still incredulous and more importantly, still not moving.

Chris eyes Peter, glances over at Stiles, then swings at almost full strength. The open-handed blow lands on the meat of one ass cheek, sending Peter stumbling in surprise onto Chris' lap right where Chris wants him.

Peter very nearly yelps when Chris lays down another slap and takes a firm handful, fingers digging in.

"Do you understand me now?"

"Fine, yes!" he shouts. And then takes the proverbial two steps back when he spits out under his breath, "you sadistic bastard."

Chris squeezes harder, hard enough to make Peter gasp and squirm, and ignores Peter's death glare in favor of Stiles' open-mouthed pant.

The boy's tenting his sweats already and his fingertips are white where he's gripping the chair arms as though his life depends on it.

Perfect.

"So, Stiles," Chris says in his most reasonable voice, the one that has Peter's cock thickening where it's pressed against Chris' thigh, "how many?"

Stiles whines and it's music to Chris' ears — an infinite improvement over screaming at Peter.

"How many strokes do you think he deserves? After all, you're the wronged party here."

There's silence as Stiles works his jaw. Chris chuckles softly.

"You can speak now, just this once. But," he adds sternly, "think _very_ carefully before you answer, because that's how long you'll be sitting in that chair."

Stiles chokes, clears his throat, then answers in a rough voice, "Thirty."

"Thirty?" Chris asks, just to be sure, and because Peter going pale is a beautiful sight.

Shrugging, Stiles gives Chris a mischievous little grin.

"Werewolf."

"True," Chris says.

Peter's skin under his hand is warm and still flawless, golden pale and lightly covered in fine, soft hair. He gives Peter a light caress and then comes in for another stinging blow that leaves Peter's ass pink for only a moment.

It's a little disappointing but the twitch of Peter's cock makes up for it.

"Well?"

"'Well?' what?" Peter hisses.

"Well, _count_ , Peter."

"Are you— fuck, fine. _One_."

Chris brings his hand down again, landing a little further over with a loud smack.

"Two," Peter says, sounding bored.

Another blow, a little harder.

" _Trois_."

Stiles snickers this time but Chris doesn't call him out on it. It's not like either of them should be surprised.

By " _cuatro_ , _go_ , _sechs_ " Stiles is snorting despite his apparent interest in the proceedings and Chris is even more determined to teach Peter a lesson. After all, no matter how unaffected Peter tries to be, Chris can feel his body giving away his secrets.

So, he lightens his touch on the next couple of blows, ending with a caress over Peter's hip that makes him shudder.

"I don't think you're taking this seriously, Peter," he says in that same mild voice.

Then rains down stroke after stroke after stroke at full force until his arm is burning and Peter's gasping in English, back arched as he braces himself for each hit.

This time when Chris pauses Peter falls limp across him and doesn't fight Chris' free hand on his nape, leans into it in fact. This time when Peter lets out a curse it's free of sarcasm and full of heat. This time he turns his flushed face into his arm and _shakes_ when Chris runs a taunting fingertip along his crack.

This time that beautiful rosy tint lingers on Peter's flawless skin and Chris can't help but roll his hips against Peter's hard stomach.

This time Stiles is moaning instead of giggling, the muscles on his neck visibly straining.

Chris can't wait to get his hands on the boy later.

Twenty and twenty-one drift lower, twenty-two and twenty-three lower still, to the tender crease of Peter's thighs.

By twenty-five Peter's panting like a dog and Stiles is unashamedly thrusting into nothing but the damp drag of his sweatpants.

"Look at him," Chris murmurs to Peter, squeezing the back of his neck to turn Peter's head towards Stiles. "Look at what you're putting him through."

Twenty-six and Chris nudges Peter's thighs apart, swirls a finger around the head of Peter's cock and then back up to tease the edge of his hole. His hand is stinging, tingling with exertion, and every touch he makes feels electric.

Peter's clearly not doing much better despite his werewolf pain tolerance.

"You're almost as wet as he is, Peter. I had a feeling you'd be gagging for it. You've always loved getting your ass pounded in front of an audience."

"Fuck you, Argent," Peter groans.

Chris spanks him again, a slightly less powerful blow precisely aimed scant inches from Peter's most tender parts. The whine he gets in response is practically in stereo.

"What count was that, Peter?"

"I —"

Peter gasps as Chris plays at his heavy balls, rolling them over long callused fingers.

"Don't tell me you've lost count. I'd hate to have to start over from the beginning."

"Twe— twenty-seven," Peter finally bites out.

He's getting close, close enough that he either doesn't notice or doesn't care that he's rocking against Chris in a soundless bid for more friction. Chris, though, Chris cares, and keeps teasing his way up and down Peter's cock and balls until Peter's subvocal growl turns to a pleading keen.

Until Peter's just on the verge of coming and Chris cruelly squeezes down, keeping Peter right on the edge.

A whimper comes from the general direction of the living room chair and, well, Chris is pretty sure Stiles isn't going to pick a fight over the Xbox again.

He looks even more desperate than Peter, eyes blown black, short hair and flushed skin damp with sweat, lips swollen from where he's been biting into them to keep quiet, and practically vibrating with need. The wet spot on his sweats has grown even larger and Chris can imagine how slick he must be with all the precome dripping down his cock.

If he weren't so intent on teaching them both a lesson he'd drag the boy into his lap right now but he _is_ , so he waits and tries to ignore how Peter's weight across his lap rocking back and forth has him hard enough to pound a nail.

Chris winds up for another blow, back to full power and centered right on Peter's left cheek, then without even giving Peter a chance to breathe drops another on his left. The force rocks Peter hard but it's just barely not enough, and he's so frustrated he has to clench his fists to keep from popping his claws.

Seriously, someday soon Chris is going to get his hands on a mountain ash paddle and go to town because Peter's still too controlled for his taste.

At least the couch is safe for the time being.

"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine," Peter says breathlessly a moment later. His gaze is half banked rage and half wild lust — and completely at Chris' mercy.

Chris runs his fingers through the damp hair at Peter's neck, tracing a path down his jugular. Peter's pulse is thudding, racing under his touch and when he flexes his grip Peter snarls again in anticipation.

The last strike is almost an afterthought, and Chris is shoving Peter to his knees before he can even get the count out.

Peter lands with a thud and a violent curse that's distinctly at odds with the enthusiasm with which he goes for Chris' fly, drawing out Chris' dick with a dazed sort of smirk. He takes it down to the root after just a few seconds of tongue, groaning, because of course Peter can't do anything by halves.

Ignoring the faint burn of his arm, Chris tangles his fingers in Peter's hair to hold him in place, ruthlessly fucking up into his mouth — Peter can handle it, _loves_ to handle Chris when he gets rough. His throat is goddamn perfect and Chris would try to stay buried there forever, except he makes the mistake of looking up.

Stiles' eyes are fever bright, actual tears on his cheeks and no wonder Peter's so affected. Even Chris can practically taste the boy's need, how he's nearly hyperventilating with it.

Chris shudders and, eyes locked with Stiles, yanks Peter in so that his cock pierces deep into his throat, coming with a growl of his own that would make any werewolf proud.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Stiles whispers, leg jittering fast enough to blur until he stills suddenly, mouth open in a perfect _O_.

It's the last straw for Peter who tears Chris' hands away and falls back onto the carpet coughing and cursing, Chris pleasantly surprised he lasted as long as he did. Peter's cock is deep red and shiny at the tip, leaking even more when Peter jerks himself harshly.

They make a lewd spectacle the two of them, Peter baring his belly and his cock in desperation and Stiles who's apparently been inspired to finally release his grip on the chair, shove his sweats down under his balls, and tug at his still-hard, come-slick dick in time with his gulping breaths.

Feeling a bit more magnanimous (and a lot more smug) now that he's worked his two lovers into complete messes, Chris decides they've probably learned their lessons.

"Go on."

Stiles flies off the chair so like Peter earlier that Chris has to smile. Except this time there's no fighting for control, there's messy, wet kisses and even messier, wetter hands frantically scrambling for touch.

Blunt teeth bruising Stiles' shoulder, it's over in moments for Peter, coming all over his and Stiles' bellies, smearing it into Stiles' skin with a deeply satisfied grumble. After that Stiles can't possibly last, rutting against Peter shamelessly. He cries out, then slumps on top of Peter, panting and hiccuping softly as Peter runs a possessive hand down his spine.

Still smiling, Chris stands and redoes his pants, ignoring Peter's pout.

"No more fighting."

"No more fighting," Peter answers playfully.

"Mmm, probably less fighting?"

Peter laughs, poking Stiles gently in the side.

"Okay, less fighting."

Chris chuckles.

"I'll take it."


End file.
